by Sharlene Teo
All that year, I kept hoping it was a misunderstanding, that we’d simply thought the worst of him. Any day my father would come back down the driveway bearing a faultless grin and two plastic bags fit to burst with fruit and snacks. Sour-plum candy, my mother’s favorite.
I played his departure over and over in my head until I confused myself as to what actually happened and what I’d gotten wrong. Every single detail mattered. If the morning before I had gone left instead of right on the main road, if I’d eaten my vegetables, if I’d followed his every word, perhaps the outcome would have been different. In any case I didn’t really want fact. I wanted to tell myself things could be reversed, even if I didn’t believe it.
13
AMISA
1978
Now that she was newly married, Amisa worked at the Paradise Theatre six days a week. Rocky promoted her to full-time box office and usher, no more dirty toilets. That week, a Hollywood picture opened which astounded her with its popularity. It was called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. When she described it to Wei Loong, it sounded like a bad, drunken dream.
The film centered on a man who was obsessed with UFOs. He became obsessed with the vision of a mountain, tried to re-create it in mashed potatoes, his madness escalating until he built a huge clay structure that overwhelmed his family and his living room. When the aliens revealed themselves, Amisa found the creatures unimpressive and vapid, their pushpin heads backlit in soapy light.
Still, the queue for tickets snaked all the way outside. Everyone wanted to encounter aliens. She was busy all day at the box office, issuing tickets and with no time even to move, until her bottom was sore on the plastic seat. Just before the 8:30 p.m. screening on the Thursday, a man rushed up to the ticket booth. He was middle-aged and had a craggy, tanned face above which rested a thatch of black hair that resembled a toupee. He had a mustache like a Gothic caterpillar. He bought a top-tiered ticket: S$3.50. As she handed it to him he looked at her straight on. He had a hard, arresting stare, direct yet not impolite. When she glanced up in annoyance, he did not even blink.
At that moment she remembered watching eagles swoop over the lowland marsh with Didi, five years ago, and Uncle Khim Fatt pointing at a shrewd-looking bird roosting on the bough of an oil palm. It had a dappled brown plumage and a white-tipped crest.
“That’s a Wallace’s hawk-eagle,” Uncle Khim Fatt said. He scribbled something in his notebook.
“Who is Wallace?” Amisa asked. The bird stared at her.
“Probably some rich white army man,” Didi replied, crouching beside her. His small, rough hand rested on her shoulder as he craned his neck to look. “I’ve seen this sort of eagle around before, but this one is mighty! Like a bird god.”
They turned their heads at the same time as the eagle shifted on its perch. It spread its wings, showing off their russet span. And then it opened its mouth and called out “Yik yee, yik yee” in a shrill, haughty tone.
Afterwards, they made the long trek in silence back to Kampong Mimpi Sedih. Didi was eleven then and held her hand with a cavalier carefreeness, only letting go when they neared the houses.
The man in front of her bore a remarkable resemblance to that Wallace’s hawk-eagle. Stupid mustache aside, the likeness lay in his hooked nose and yellow eyes. Even more astonishing was the complete lack of lust or attraction in his gaze. Maybe he was a homosexual, she thought arrogantly. He was sizing her up as if she were withholding some great wisdom, an answer to a question he had pondered for years.
“Can I help you? Popcorn and kacang puteh are on the other side of the hall,” Amisa said.
“Incredible!” he said, and kept staring. “Sorry. I can’t get over your face,” the man continued. “It’s like the perfect mask.”
She frowned and blinked slowly at him.
“Yet it also unveils,” he said. “I’ve never seen a face like yours, not in Singapore, nor all of Southeast Asia. In Kazakhstan or Tibet, maybe, high up in the sacred passes, but certainly not around here. You’re so beautiful you make me slightly sick, if you don’t mind my saying so. You probably get this all the time.”
I do, Amisa thought. She crossed her arms.
“I can assure you I am not a pervert,” the man continued. “I am married and have a small child of my own. But I know the real deal when I see it, and you, young lady, have a face made for film.”
“Er. Thanks,” Amisa replied. She didn’t tell him that he looked like a hawk-eagle. He spoke like someone out of a movie. Someone who was sure of himself, even if he was putting on a voice, a Southeast Asian imitating one of those early American talkies: more than a little affected. Still, her cheeks reddened.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Amisa.”
“Amisa. I want to work with you. Please can I give you my card?” There was an odd, curt roll to his R’s. She wondered where the man came from. He looked Malay but spoke English with an accent she couldn’t quite place.
She shrugged as he slipped out a name card from an elegant silver holder.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Amisa, I’ve got to catch this show. I see great things ahead for us. I have an offer for you: be my star.”
She stared back at him, squinting a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s simple. I’m presenting you with an opportunity, because I think you’re special. Take the running time to consider. Let me know what you think when I come out later on.”
She took the card from him as he turned on his heels towards the auditorium. After he had disappeared into the darkness she flipped it over. It was printed on off-white layered paper stock with raised lettering.
ISKANDAR WIRYANTO
VISIONARY • FILM-MAKER • AUTEUR
2 3 0 8 5 8
His phone number was the same digits as her birthday. What are the odds, Amisa thought. She knew what a film-maker was, but the other two words sounded pompous and unfamiliar to her. Maybe he could help her become a fashion model. Maybe he knew people that could put her in touch with people. Was a visionary someone like Yunxi, conjuring messages from the ether?
She didn’t sit in on this screening of Close Encounters; she’d seen quite enough. Instead she got out a little compact and examined the split ends of her hair, took a diffident shit in the staff toilet, flushed, and made elastic, horrible faces at herself in the bathroom mirror. She felt light-headed, a little giddy from this man’s compliments. Somehow, they bore a more stately quality than the usual.
One hundred and thirty-five minutes passed. She watched the door. The Malay families streamed out first, mothers chiding their crying children, followed by the Indian and Chinese teenagers throwing popcorn at each other, the every-raced young couples glazed in each other’s juices, the married people trying to keep it together or thinking about work, the lone wolves pondering the universe, and finally Iskandar Wiryanto himself. He strolled out of the theatre with his hands in his pockets and came right up to her counter. She pretended to be busy with the ledger.
“What a film,” he said. She didn’t reply. “My mind is blown. Well, Amisa?”
She shrugged, uncharacteristically gormless. She couldn’t hold his eye. He was staring at her with a candor and familiarity as if they had already known each other for years. After a moment she got out the card from her uniform pocket and held it up.
“You want to work with me like how?”
“Be my lead actress.”
“Is this a joke?” Amisa muttered in Mandarin, before repeating it in English. She cleared her throat and studied the card again. “Mr. Wiryanto, I’m not an actress. I sell tickets only.”
“I know,” he said, smiling so that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened into creases.
“And I’m married, by the way,” Amisa continued. “If this is some sort of sleazy offer I am really not interested. If you bother me I’ll call my manager over. His name is Rocky.”
“Easy. Calm down,” he sai
d.
She glared at him, her mouth a straight, luscious line.
“It’s not like that, I promise. You don’t need acting experience; I prefer someone unpolished for the role. And scary, like you.”
“Scary?”
“Yes,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “I want you to play a monster. A powerful Pontianak, a really big role, bigger than most debut actresses get offered.”
“Pontianak? Why do you want me to act like a ghost? Isn’t it bad luck?”
“Ah, at least you’re considering it.” He smiled. “Why, are you superstitious?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “Where are you from?”
“I’ve lived everywhere,” he said, with an enigmatic pause. “But I’m originally from Kota Pontianak, Indonesia.”
“I’ve not heard of that. Are you making it up?”
He laughed. “You’re funny,” he said. No one had ever called her funny before. “Of course I’m not making it up. The city sits right on the equator. It’s real. I can bring a map and show you.”
She waved her hands in front of her and shook her head. Rocky strolled by, shooting a quizzical glance at her. She checked the clock.
“I don’t understand your name card,” Amisa said hurriedly, holding the card up to the light. “What is an auteur? What is a visionary? Why can’t you just say it simple?”
“Because it describes me,” Iskandar said simply. “Well, what do you think?”
“I’ll think about it. Thank you,” Amisa replied. But she noticed him noticing her put the card back into her shirt pocket.
“We start filming in six weeks,” he continued. “I can’t budge on the schedule. Call me crazy, but if you’re suitable, I’ll fire my lead actress. I wasn’t very happy with her anyway. She’s got nothing on you.”
“Really?”
“Really. If my instinct is correct and you are as great as you look, I’ll say the word. I have a really good feeling. I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
She crinkled up her nose and scowled.
“Don’t make that face. I’m really excited about you. Please consider.”
“Sure,” Amisa replied. “See you. Bye.”
“You have my card, Amisa. I hope to hear from you. Good-bye.”
At the double doors Iskandar turned to admire her one last time, then he saluted her and walked off into the humid evening.
You have a face made for film; the real deal; you’re perfect; lead actress. She kept on recounting what he had said to her, repeating it over and over in her head. At dinner she was dazed, a small dreamy smile playing on her mouth. His praise was like a new dress waiting at home, in a nice carrier bag, in the cupboard. She picked at her noodles but didn’t attack her plate with her usual lunchless workday vigor.
“Are you okay?” Wei Loong asked. “Did some ah beng bother you at work again? Got show him your ring finger? Tell those bastards you’re a married woman and I’ll wallop them.”
She shook her head slowly. The hawker center was hot and crowded and families chattered around them, but she felt like she was in another world. The pristine, sweat-free world of the rich and famous. She pictured the man from Close Encounters floating up into the kueh tutu–shaped UFO. She basked in an alien spotlight, and it was delicious.
“I met someone interesting today,” she finally said.
“Huh, really?” Wei Loong glanced up at her and then back down to the plate of char kway teow in front of them. He funneled a piece of fishcake into his mouth and chewed.
“Yes, he’s an Indonesian director called Iskandar Wiryanto. He gave me his card. He said he wants to work with me. . . .”
Wei Loong took the card and turned it frontwards. A shadow flickered over his face.
“He’s making a horror movie. About a Pontianak. You know, the ghost,” Amisa said. “He offered me the lead role if I come in and audition.”
“Do you think you’ll do it?” Wei Loong asked.
“Well, why not?”
He studied the card once more and handed it back to her.
“Imagine how much money we’d have,” Amisa continued, “if I became an actress. All the shiok things we’ll be able to buy for home. All the nice furniture.”
“Singapore where got film industry?” Wei Loong asked, waving his chopsticks. “Last time I know got Melayu movies, but didn’t all the studios close?”
“He’s financing it himself.”
“How did he find the cash? This bugger sounds shady. Also, P. Ramlee already made Pontianak films a long time ago and they did so well. This one how to fight?”
Amisa shrugged and bit her lip as Wei Loong stared off into the distance, considering something.
“Also, isn’t a Pontianak a bit old-fashioned? Hong Kong already got so many ghost story movies—who needs more? Everyone is crazy now about Star Wars, and aliens.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, it’s a stupid idea,” Amisa said. “And I’m an idiot for suggesting it.”
“I didn’t say that,” Wei Loong replied.
Amisa put down her cutlery and grabbed her drink.
“Don’t you always tell me I should try more things?” she muttered into her sugarcane juice. “Now when this comes up you are so doubtful about it.”
Anger crouched on her shoulder like a vulture. You should be so lucky I’m with you. I can do so much better. Maybe I can be a star, make it all the way to Hong Kong or even Hollywood, she thought, staring daggers. Wei Loong shifted on his stool. Silence stretched.
“I guess you should try and audition, if it makes you happy,” he finally said. “You might not get it, but no harm to show up since this big shot asked you. Maybe it will take off.”
“That’s what I thought.” She beamed, and the air shifted. “You never know, right?”
“Yeah. You never know,” Wei Loong said tentatively. “I think I should go with you, though.”
“Why?”
He sniffed and wiped his nose. “In case it’s something shady.”
“Huh.”
“Like those sleazy photographers who want to take naked pictures of you and sell in JB—”
Amisa let out a loud, equine sigh and pushed bean sprouts around her plate with a plastic spoon. “I’m not stupid. I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“So?” She stared him down and he looked away.
“Nothing, lah. Forget I said anything.”
“Sure.”
After dinner they trudged back to their block in pall-bearer silence. Wei Loong followed her into the cramped blue elevator with the speckled board unpeeling from the wall and shut the accordion door behind him. She reached across and jabbed the button for the sixth floor.
“You don’t need to keep pressing it,” he said. “We’re already moving.”
Amisa ignored him and watched the floors rush past upwards through the little window. She remembered riding the old funicular from her childhood, creakily ascending the steep hill—hill and railway both now likely refurbished to a state of gleaming slickness. She saw it happening in this city all the time, the crooked and old being knocked down to make way for the relentlessly new. The city was changing at breakneck speed and she knew Penang would be no different. You either kept up or got left behind in the dust and dereliction.
Wei Loong got the house keys out of his pocket. They heard their telephone ring. He opened the grille and then the main door as the phone kept up its shrill and insistent tone. She stormed over and picked up the green receiver.
“Hello?”
“Xiaofang? Hello? Xiaofang?” It was Jiejie, and she was sobbing.
Amisa cradled the phone closer to her ear. “I can hear you. Jiejie, what’s wrong?”
Her sister was crying too hard for Amisa to make out her words.
“What happened, Jie?”
“It’s Didi,” Jiejie said quickly. She sounded the way she used to as a young girl, hitting her knee hard on something and gulping back tears.
Amisa
felt the sugarcane juice rising back up. She could taste it in the tightening chamber where mouth met throat.
“What happened? Did he get into another accident?”
She heard her sister’s drawn-out exhalation. Amisa had been perched on the wooden arm of a chair and now she extended the phone cord and sat fully on the seat. Wei Loong hovered in front of her, but she shook her head and waved him away.
“There was a landslide,” Jiejie said. “This morning it was so rainy. Didi got on his motorcycle anyway. He was going towards the Kuala Lumpur–Karak highway when it happened.”
“What time?”
“Just after ten.”
Amisa tried to remember what she was doing right then. She was probably filling in the box-office ledger in her looping, wayward script, eyelids drooping.
“A tree trunk fell across the highway,” Jiejie continued. Amisa drew her breath. Her sister’s voice was a rambling monotone. “Didi got trapped. All these cars also, and a tour bus. The rescue team took two hours to get to them.”
“Is he okay?” Amisa asked, even though she already knew.
“No,” Jiejie muttered. “No.”
Amisa’s hands were ice-cold. She imagined the deep failure of slopes, debris piling in a matter of seconds. Slurry of muddy water and rocks as they slid, toppled, and flowed. Marsala-colored gushing dirt. It happened like that. She gripped the receiver. It was warm, and hurt pressed so close to her ear.
She started to cry. She thought of the last thing Didi must have seen as he navigated the curve of the road: tangerine horizon and all of a sudden earth rushing to earth rushing to earth. She hoped he hadn’t been trapped in the darkness for hours, feeling scared and alone as mud filled his ears, his mouth, his lungs. That his end was quick and painless. She wished she could have done something, anything at all. Changed the weather, stilled the soil. Rung home more often and insisted he come to the phone. Tried to get hold of him yesterday. Told him Didi, please, please, just stay at home. She doubled over, ragged gasps coming in waves. This sadness was so big and savage that she felt she would burst. Didi didn’t deserve to die. He was only sixteen. He was her Little Ghost, bird-watcher, braggart, cheeky little shit, and her favorite person in the whole world.